


To the hungry soul every bitter thing is sweet

by sphagnum



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bondage, Dom Bucky Barnes, Dom Tony Stark, Hand Jobs, Honeypot, Hopeful Ending, Light Dom/sub, M/M, POV Bucky Barnes, Porn with Feelings, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, Restraints, Steve has some unorthodox ideas about how to get Bucky to come in, Sub Steve Rogers, Tony Helps Out, little bit of voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-07-01 16:35:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15777912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sphagnum/pseuds/sphagnum
Summary: The phone shows a photo of the Captain kneeling on a mat in the middle of a nearly empty room. He wears thin gray pants and a white shirt. He looks tired. The Soldier notes that automatically, as part of cataloging the weaknesses of a potential opponent, but the thought lingers longer than it should. The Captain is enhanced like the Soldier, but better, his serum more powerful. He still looks tired.The Soldier swipes to the next photo. It shows the Captain from behind, his wrists and ankles caught in thick coils of strange bindings. They shine midnight blue in the soft light, their surface smooth and reflective, unlike any rope the Soldier has seen before. They look seamless and strong.“You benched him,” the Soldier says, slow and uncertain. The pictures have him off-balance. He remembers--not this, not this strong back and broad shoulders, but this pose, this hair above a much thinner neck. A handkerchief held in two bony fists, anddon't let go or I'll stop, Stevie--





	1. Chapter 1

When the Soldier emerges from the rubble of the Hydra base, Iron Man is waiting for him. He shifts into a fighting stance automatically and scans the horizon.

"If you're looking for Steve, he's not here." Iron Man’s repulsors are dull, not charged and ready to fire. He's perched out of reach on a high boulder, one leg dangling and the other folded, the pose expressing casual unconcern.

"You're lying," the Soldier says. The Captain is _always_ there, dogging the Soldier's footsteps and making his missions more difficult. He’s not exactly an enemy. The Captain has deliberately ignored chances to kill or capture the Soldier in favor of asking him for _please, Buck, just listen, you know me, try to remember, please let me help_ impossible things, but he’s been pursuing the Soldier constantly, and he’s never sent his allies after the Soldier without being present himself.

"Not this time. He's been running himself ragged trying to keep up with you, you know that? He’s sleeping one day out of every three and running marathons every morning to burn off spare adrenaline. Even he can't keep this up forever. I benched him."

"You're lying," the Soldier repeats. The things he knows about the Captain are chaotic, fragmented, sometimes contradictory, but every analysis agrees that the Captain never walks away from a fight. The Captain doesn't make any _sense_ , but his persistence is one of the few reliable forces in the Soldier’s world.

"You wanna see for yourself? I'm tossing you a phone, don't shoot it." Iron Man holds up the black rectangle, then pitches it at the Soldier. The Soldier catches it. It's an impulsive decision that somehow bypasses his risk assessment. Iron Man is capable of engineering manacles or explosives that look like innocuous objects, and the Soldier should know better than to accept any unknown object from him, but Iron Man has been following the Soldier, too, and hasn't acted against him yet. None of the Captain's allies have. That doesn’t explain or excuse the Soldier’s lowered defenses. Just because they haven’t tried to attack him _yet_ doesn’t mean they never _will_.

The phone shows a photo of the Captain kneeling on a mat in the middle of a nearly empty room. He wears thin gray pants and a white shirt. He looks tired. The Soldier notes that automatically, as part of cataloging the weaknesses of a potential opponent, but the thought lingers longer than it should. The Captain is enhanced like the Soldier, but better, his serum more powerful. He still looks tired.

The Soldier swipes to the next photo. It shows the Captain from behind, his wrists and ankles caught in thick coils of strange bindings. They shine midnight blue in the soft light, their surface smooth and reflective, unlike any rope the Soldier has seen before. They look seamless and strong.

“You benched him,” the Soldier says, slow and uncertain. The pictures have him off-balance. He remembers--not this, not this strong back and broad shoulders, but this pose, this hair above a much thinner neck. A handkerchief held in two bony fists, and _don't let go or I'll stop, Stevie--_

“Yep.” Iron Man slides off the boulder and lands on his feet, five meters away from the Soldier. His repulsors hang loose and inert at his sides. Iron Man has always been warier of the Soldier than the Captain or the Falcon, but today he leaves his guard open, although he sensibly keeps the protection of the suit.

At this distance, the Soldier could disable him if he had to. He doesn’t try. His focus is held fast by the tiny rectangle in his hand and the photos it displays. “You put him in restraints.”

“He needed the help staying still. These days it’s either tie him down or let him run himself into exhaustion, and he did that yesterday. And then stayed up all night doing intel analysis to figure out which base you were going to hit. Nice job, by the way,” Iron Man adds as an afterthought, waving at the smoking ruins behind them.

“You left him alone?”

“My pal J is watching him. The restraints are electronic, I can undo them from here if there’s a problem. He’s fine.” Iron Man’s suit obscures his face entirely, but the Soldier can feel the weight of his attention. “You want to see for yourself?”

“I don’t want to talk to him.” Hearing the Captain’s voice gives the Soldier strange dreams, makes him wake gasping and digging grooves into the floor with his fingers, trying to hold onto something, trying not to _fall_. It doesn’t make any sense. The Captain is the one who fell into the river. The Soldier doesn’t understand why he dreams so often of falling.

“Not what I asked, Red Scare. I can tell him not to talk,” Iron Man says with easy authority, as though the Captain will actually follow this command if he gives it. The Soldier wonders whether that confidence is earned or manufactured. “What I asked was, do you want to _see_ him.”

The Soldier stares at the first photo while he deliberates. Seen like this, the Captain doesn’t ring so many alarm bells, doesn’t trigger that driving need to get _away_ that is the Soldier’s primary reaction whenever he makes an appearance. The kneeling pose and the vastness of the room around him make him look small. He’s looking straight at the camera, weary but calm. Resigned. Something about that _hurts_ , but in a way that makes the Soldier want to be closer instead of farther away.

“Where,” the Soldier says.

 

The location is close to the destroyed base, within an hour’s drive. Iron Man flies slow and low to the ground, leaving a clear trail for the Soldier to follow on the motorcycle he’d used to reach the base. He’d curled his lip at Iron Man’s offer to carry him there in a quarter of the time. He’s taking enough risks by allowing Iron Man to lead him anywhere; he’s not going to put himself literally in Iron Man’s hands and leave his only method of independent transportation behind.

In those early days when he was still fighting the conditioning to return to Hydra for debriefing _and_ the strange whisper in the back of his mind that insisted he should turn himself into the Captain, he never would have considered doing something like this. The longer the Soldier stays out of cryo, the more he changes. He doesn’t know if that’s a good thing. He doesn’t know which habits he should trust and which habits are old traps left by his former captors, but caution is so deep in his bones that it must be an instinct common to both the Asset and Sergeant Barnes. It’s alarming that a photograph of the Captain is powerful enough to override both.

The Soldier doesn’t see any vehicles outside the isolated farmhouse where Iron Man touches down. He leaves his motorcycle at the end of the long driveway and walks the rest of the way, ignoring the way Iron Man crosses his arms and taps one metal-booted foot impatiently. He’s used to the Captain chasing him, but this is the first time he’s sought out the Captain. His body is pumping adrenaline the way it does before a mission, but missions have goals. Missions have targets. The Captain isn’t a target anymore. The Soldier doesn’t know what the Captain is.

Iron Man stands in front of the door, arms folded under the glowing power source in his chest. “You hurt him, we’re done. Clear?”

The Soldier thinks they should have established any necessary parameters _before_ Iron Man led him here, but it’s easy enough to agree. He has no intention of hurting the Captain. That mission is long since over. He has no desire to repeat the Asset’s failure, or to erase Sergeant Barnes’ triumph. “Understood.”

Iron Man opens the door and steps through, the Soldier following behind. He had intended to do a sweep of the building and look for the friend Iron Man had mentioned, but he’s immediately distracted from properly evaluating his surroundings by the sight of the Captain. He’s exactly where the picture showed him, still on his knees in the center of the large, white-washed room. The Captain looks up as soon as they enter. His lips part on an inhale as shock wipes the exhaustion from his face.

“No talking, Steve, got it?” Iron Man says immediately. The Captain closes his mouth and nods. He’s staring at the Soldier. The Soldier stands frozen in the doorway, most of his weight resting on his back foot, ready to run. For long moments, he and the Captain share a profound stillness.

Iron Man breaks it. He walks casually across the room and circles behind the Captain. “Wiggle your fingers? Good. Anything I should know about?”

The Captain shakes his head. His eyes haven’t left the Soldier, but his breathing is more regular, his face less pale. His shoulders relax a fraction when Iron Man rests a gauntlet on the back of his head.

The Soldier could do that, too. The thought has barely crossed his mind before he’s moving forward, not in a straight line like Iron Man, but in an oblique arc that lets him survey the Captain from the side before he’s within grabbing range. Iron Man gives ground as the Soldier approaches, backing up to stand by the wall, leaving the Captain accessible in the center of the room.

The restraints are just as they were shown in the picture, sturdy loops of seamless blue cables visible behind the Captain’s hands and feet. The sight of the Captain’s bare toes, pale and vulnerable against the dark mat, sends an unexpected jolt of tenderness through the Soldier. He’s seen the Captain striding across smouldering fields of rubble, in black and white newsreel footage, in countless nightmares where he faces the Captain across the deck of the helicarrier and neither of them stay their hands. That Captain is iron-jawed and unapproachable. _This_ Captain, the Soldier’s patchwork instincts suggest, invites touch.

The Captain turns his head to track the Soldier’s progress, but looks forward once the Soldier is fully behind him, his head dipping down so he’s looking at the floor. His shoulder muscles are tightly bunched. The Soldier reaches out, only realizing once his hand is already extended that he’s using the metal arm. There’s still some part of him that insists the Captain is the most dangerous opponent the Soldier has ever faced. He hesitates, but the Captain hadn’t objected to Iron Man’s metal gauntlet, and a metal hand can’t be any colder or more uncomfortable than armor.

The Captain makes an aborted noise when the Soldier cups the back of his head. His ears and neck flush, the increased blood flow registering as heightened warmth to the sensors in the Soldier’s hand. When the Soldier strokes lightly over his hair, the Captain shudders with a tremor that sweeps from his shoulders down his back.

Fascinated, the Soldier walks to the Captain’s front, trailing his fingers from the Captain’s crown down to the thin shell of his ear. The Captain presses his cheek into the Soldier’s palm. When the Soldier thumbs over his lips, which are startlingly soft and pink against the unyielding metal, the Captain opens his mouth. His tongue presses forward to meet the Soldier’s thumb as it slips inside, as though he can keep the Soldier pinned in place with the force of that warm, wet touch alone.

It’s worrying that the Soldier isn’t sure he’s wrong. He withdraws his hand quickly and moves his thumb to the underside of the Captain’s jaw instead, his fingers curling around the Captain’s neck, slotting in between the knobs of his highest cervical vertebrae.

It dawns on the Soldier, much too late, that this _is_ a trap, one baited with the Captain's vulnerability. It’s not the kind of trap the Soldier knew to be wary of. The Captain didn’t lure him here to drug or subdue the Soldier and force him into captivity; he’s counting on the Soldier _wanting_ to stay.

It's so breathtakingly reckless that it must have been the Captain's own idea. The Soldier could tighten his hand at any time. He could crush the Captain's throat before Iron Man could stop him. He could snap this final loose thread, the last tether to his past, and let the expectant weight of his putative history drop into oblivion.

He leans down and bites instead, digging his teeth into the thin skin high above the Captain's collar, where the mark will show above his uniform top, his right hand gripping the Captain’s shoulder to hold him still while he works. The Captain makes a soft noise and goes even looser in the Soldier's hands.

 _Appallingly_ reckless. The Soldier can’t explain why that reaction makes him feel warm, but he’s sure it’s a sign the Captain’s plan is succeeding. He always was a good strategist.

The Soldier mouths along the edge of his jaw, tasting the bristle. The Captain must not have shaved that morning. His stubble is darker than the hair on his head, stiff and _aww jeez, Buck, can’t you shave first next time, I’m red all down my_ prickly all over. He’s breathing fast and shallow, like he’s going into shock, but his skin is pink and warm instead of cold and clammy, and when the Soldier slips fingers under the collar of his shirt he pushes into the pressure. He pulls up on the hem of the Captain’s shirt with his other hand, baring a few inches of pale stomach. The Captain blinks at him, resignation gone but all that intensity still present. He thinks the Captain would be leaning in to kiss him or bite him or tackle him to the floor if the Captain weren’t keeping those impulses tightly leashed.

“Feel free to rip his clothes off if they’re in the way,” Iron Man says casually, still standing by the wall. “I’ve got plenty of spares. He wouldn’t mind, right, Steve?”

The Captain shakes his head immediately. He’s back to staring at the Soldier, from only inches away this time, so close the Soldier doesn’t even have to make eye contact to know that the Captain’s gaze is roaming over his face. What does he see? What new details is he absorbing? How does the Soldier’s face compare to the one projected on the walls of the museum exhibit dedicated to the Captain and Sergeant Barnes?

The Soldier doesn’t look up. He isn’t going to risk getting trapped in the Captain’s gaze again. He considers the Captain’s shirt instead, noting where the fabric is weakened by proximity to seams. He could cut the cloth with a knife, but pulling a weapon would alarm Iron Man, and there’s no need. Three quick tugs and the thin fabric gives way easily to reveal sweat-dappled skin.

The Captain holds his breath while the Soldier pulls his shirt apart, but his chest jumps on a gasp as soon as the Soldier places his right hand over the Captain’s heart. It beats so desperately under the Soldier’s palm that for a brief ridiculous moment the Soldier worries it’s hurting the Captain’s ribs, knocking against them so hard from the inside.

“Easy,” the Soldier says, letting the automatic response fall from his lips. “Take it easy, there, soldier.”

"Bu--"

The Soldier presses a metal finger to the Captain's lips. The Captain flushes and ducks his head, neck tendons stiffening. Not angry at him, the Soldier knows, but angry at himself, because he wasn't supposed to talk. Always so hard on himself, even like this.

The Soldier knows how to unwind the Captain's new tension. "Awww, don't pout, honey," he says, and his accent has shifted dramatically but that's acceptable in this case, that's part of the protocol. The Captain looks up fast, eyes wide, his heart picking up speed again. "I know you're trying hard." The Soldier keeps his hand in place and kneels by the Captain’s side, checking the blue coils encasing his ankles and wrists. The skin under the cables is unmarked, unabraded, proof that the Captain has kept still since he was bound instead of pulling restlessly against the restraints. "You waited so patiently, so good."

 _So good for me_ , he almost says, but that's not right. The Captain was placed here by Iron Man, not the Soldier. Iron Man has been very quiet--an unprecedented development--but he’s still in the room and watching every move the Soldier makes. The Soldier approves of his caution. Someone should be looking out for the Captain, and right now the Soldier can’t. Just being this close is stirring up the muddled depths of his memory, the Captain’s mere presence sending new fragments to the surface in a dizzying trickle. The Soldier swallows and forces the memories away so he can concentrate on the man in front of him.

“Do you want me to touch you?” the Soldier asks, not because he has any doubt, but because he wants to give the Captain a chance to show he knows how to answer correctly. The Captain nods quickly, leaning into the Soldier’s space a little. The Soldier rewards him with a smooth, lingering stroke up to his collarbone and down to his hip, his right hand tracing over the muscle of the Captain’s chest, the bones of his ribs, the softness of his belly. Beautiful. His vision wavers and for an instant the Soldier sees the same red flush over a narrower chest, skin pulled tighter over the bone. Beautiful, the Soldier thinks again. Beautiful either way. A gift either way, a privilege the Soldier must live up to, trust given freely that he must not break.

The thought warms him and makes him anxious at the same time. He keeps his hand moving, his fingers curving gently around the Captain’s hip and dipping under his waistband, but he looks over the Captain’s shoulder to where Iron Man stands. His presence is reassuring. He will keep the Captain from coming to harm, if the Soldier proves unworthy of the trust the Captain has placed in him.

Iron Man is still as a statue, so motionless that he must have locked the suit in place to prevent it from picking up and amplifying his movements. The Soldier wants to know what he’s trying to keep himself from giving away. Is he jealous? Does he want to push the Soldier to the side and take his place? Or does he want to get closer? He brought the Soldier here, he must be willing to share. Is that all he wants to do?

“So good for us,” the Soldier says. The glowing eyes of the suit give nothing away when the Soldier meets them, but Iron Man’s speakers crackle at his sharp indrawn breath. “So good for us, Steve.”

The name comes from the same place inside his head as the accent, and it’s just as incontrovertibly correct. Steve bites his lip, hard, against whatever noise his body wants to make. The Soldier taps his finger against the bitten lip and Steve releases it instantly. Blood rushes back into the white dents made by Steve’s teeth and turns them a vivid red, but the skin isn’t broken, and the marks smooth out a few moments later.

 _I want to hear you,_  the Soldier almost says, but it would contradict his prohibition against speech, and he doesn’t want to set Steve up for failure. It’s true, though. He wants to touch and tease until Steve can’t help but be noisy, wants to make Steve fall apart for him, all that powerful restraint stripped away.

He doesn’t have that right. Not until he’s certain he can put Steve back together after.

But he doesn’t want to leave Steve like this, shirtless and starting to tent his pants and staring at him with an almost desperate hunger. He pets over Steve’s bare shoulders, his calluses scraping gently against the soft skin. It’s been a long time since he had to soothe anyone, but his body remembers the rhythm of it, the calm even strokes that make Steve’s breathing steady and deepen. They fall into sync, breathing together slowly while his hands move over Steve’s arms and back and chest and neck.

When the Soldier’s hand runs lower on the next stroke to trace over the outline of Steve’s hardening cock, Steve’s breath hitches for an instant, then falls right back into their shared rhythm. “Good,” the Soldier murmurs, and moves his hand to Steve’s stomach, fingers petting over the trail of fuzz. Steve’s chest is rising and falling further now as he takes deeper breaths to compensate for the deliberate slowness of the Soldier’s breathing. The Soldier keeps him balanced on the edge with light touches--sweeping over the underside of Steve’s belly, skating over his ribs, circling his nipples with a fingertip and barely-there pressure--then knocks him decisively out of sync by pressing the heel of his hand to the bulge in Steve’s pants. All the air rushes out of Steve like he’s been punched. The Soldier feels an unaccustomed urge to smile.

“Good,” he says, voice quiet. He doesn’t need to be loud. He knows he has Steve’s undivided attention. “Let yourself feel it.”

Steve squirms a little every time the Soldier speeds up or slows down. The Soldier works him with a firm hand through the soft thin pants until a dark spot blooms on the fabric where Steve is leaking precum. He bites him again, on his shoulder this time, and feels Steve’s dick jerk under his palm. Suddenly it’s not enough not to _see_ him, not to _smell_ him, so he pulls Steve’s waistband down to his thighs, freeing Steve’s hard cock. Steve arches up for a moment so his pants can slide down his ass, his wrists and ankles still caught together as his hips jut up in a display of effortless strength. He’s not even showing off. His eyes are glazed and his breath is coming in soft pants, proof that he’s beyond caring what a display he makes. The Soldier aches with the desire to kiss him.

The Soldier can’t kiss him. If he kisses him then Steve’s trap will spring, and he can’t stay, so he can’t kiss him. He touches him instead, circling the head of Steve’s dick with his palm to get it nice and wet before gliding down Steve’s shaft in one long stroke.

A wet gasp falls from Steve’s open mouth. He’s panting with his head thrown back, blinking at the ceiling, looking away from the Soldier for the first time, and the Soldier knows he’s doing it because otherwise he won’t last. It’s enough to get the Soldier fully hard in his own pants, which he ignores. This isn’t about that. He has to--he can’t--this isn’t about that. He moves his hand in a slow corkscrew pattern, watching Steve’s flush spread farther down his chest to cover his stomach so that he’s _pretty in pink, Stevie, you always get so--_

Too many echoes. The Soldier’s head is throbbing, an inevitable side effect of disturbing so many memories so quickly. He won’t be able to push the pain back forever, but for now he can still set it aside to focus on the minute trembling of Steve’s chest, proof he’s holding himself back. He always comes so easily, going off _just like a bottlerocket, you fizz right over, hey, don’t_ hit _me, I’m just_ saying--

“C’mon, buddy,” the Soldier murmurs. He leans in close so his words wash hot air over Steve’s ear, and Steve’s whole body shivers. “You don’t have to hold back, c’mon, I want to see, let me see.”

Steve doubles over as much as the bindings will let him, groaning and folding forward as his dick spurts in the Soldier’s hand. The Soldier works him through it nice and slow and easy. The smell of it sends more shockwaves of memory rippling through him, the hot animal tang of Steve’s release so familiar he can taste it without opening his mouth, bringing with it a feeling like the triumph of a mission complete.

Ridiculous, to feel triumphant when Steve’s the one who’s winning.

He’s weak enough to lean in and press his forehead against Steve’s while their ragged breathing steadies. The protocols that have been guiding him fracture, calling for equipment he doesn’t have and words he can’t offer. He pulls his messy hand away and wipes it on one of the scraps of Steve’s shirt, using another to clean most of the come off of Steve, his hands as gentle as he can make them. “So good, Steve,” he says instead. “So good for us.”

Standing up is painful. The pressure change makes his head throb, and more than that, putting distance between himself and Steve feels _wrong_. Smoothing Steve’s hair down with his clean hand while Steve leans against his thigh helps only marginally. He looks again at Iron Man, reminding himself that this is a trap. A trap baited with honey, but a trap nonetheless, and he isn’t ready to be caught.

Whatever shows in his face is enough to make Iron Man approach, slow enough not to be threatening. “You could stay.”

The pain in the Soldier’s head is cascading. It isn’t yet debilitating, but it will reach that point soon. He doesn’t want to crack open in front of Iron Man and Steve. “Not yet. You’ll stay with him?” Iron Man has special restraints just for Steve. They must have done this before, just the two of them. He’ll know the words the Soldier can’t conjure, the protocols that will keep Steve safe from harm.

Iron Man’s faceplate slides open. The Soldier has seen his face in pictures and video, but never before in person. Iron Man has always been too wary of him to be anything but fully armored in his presence. His gaze now is serious and measured as he takes in the Soldier’s tension--the Soldier’s hands have just started to shake, the pain spreading down his spine and radiating out to his fingers and toes--and nods. “I’ll stay with him.”

The Soldier carefully disentangles his hand from Steve’s hair. He loses a battle with himself and leans in to press a kiss to the center of Steve’s forehead. Not as much as he wants, and already more than he should take. Steve’s eyes are closed, but they blink open when the Soldier withdraws. He looks at the floor before he has to watch Steve’s face lose its dreamy vagueness.

“I’ll come back,” he promises, and forces himself to step away. “When I can. I’ll come back.”

At the doorway, his unruly body ignores his better judgment and he turns, unable to resist a final glimpse. Iron Man has withdrawn his helmet and both gauntlets. One of his bare hands combs through Steve’s sweat-damp hair while Steve presses his face into the other. He’s talking softly to Steve, his words warm and gentle. The Soldier makes a deliberate effort not to hear them. It’s enough to know that Iron Man is taking care of Steve in a way the Soldier can’t. Not yet. Someday, maybe. 

He'll have to come back sometime even if he's not better, even if he's broken beyond mending, now that he's made a promise to Steve. The trap worked after all, even if its effects will be delayed. He already knows the next time he goes to Steve will also be the last. He won’t have the strength to walk away from Steve twice.

The pain in his head spikes, spurring him onward, and he jogs down the driveway without looking back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barnes had made an updated risk assessment based on new intel about Captain Rogers--Steve, now, always Steve, the only name that fit whether Barnes was remembering him in a green dress uniform or a shirt with blood-stained cuffs hanging down to his knuckles or in soft pants and sleek blue restraints--after their last encounter. Steve was luring, not chasing. If he’d wanted to run Barnes to ground and take him in by force, he would have done it already. Steve had to know by now that the former Winter Soldier was haunting his Smithsonian exhibit. Barnes was hoping Steve wouldn’t act on that knowledge, would understand that Barnes had to do this on his own time. It was a novel experience, trusting someone to act with Barnes’ best interest in mind. It was even more novel for that trust to be well-placed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I was done with this, but the mostly unresolved ending kept nagging at me, so here's a chapter that gets them closer to a permanent (and happy) resolution.

The museum wasn’t as crowded in the early mornings. School groups started arriving around ten and tourists crowded in on afternoons and weekends, but on a rainy Tuesday ten minutes after opening it was just the security guards, a few retired couples, and Barnes.

Barnes nodded at the guide at the front desk without making eye contact on his way in. The guide might have smiled at him. They usually did. Sometimes Barnes could muster the energy to raise his head and smile back. It was progress.

The first time he’d come here, he’d disabled the alarms on the back door and slipped in through the staff entrance. He’d lasted five seconds in the main exhibit hall before he’d had to duck back out and vomit in the maintenance closet. Now he had a routine. Acknowledge the guide at the front desk, walk through the exhibit halls, watch the documentary clip in the video room, go to the bathroom and stand in a locked stall until his hands stopped shaking, drop a few bills into the donation box on his way out. It had taken weeks to perfect, but now the routine was calming, a procedure his body could follow while his brain was preoccupied with the work of remembering.

Barnes walked through the exhibit slowly, looking at every image for a count of three breaths. The pictures on the walls didn’t make him dizzy. The uniforms standing together in a strong, protective unit in the middle of the room didn’t trigger a cascading migraine. The audio clips of Director Carter and Howard Stark didn’t send him into a panic that carried him halfway across the city, instincts about _disobeying superior officers_ and _failure to report for reset_ screaming that he had to _run_ and _hide_ until he finally came back to himself huddled in a ball between two dumpsters, receiving condescending stares from the alley cats. None of those things happened. He had made improvements. The immersion therapy was working.

It was an effective method, but he’d known it came with costs. He could have come once and vanished before anyone marked his presence; it was too much to hope that his daily visits had gone unnoticed.

Barnes had made an updated risk assessment based on new intel about Captain Rogers-- _Steve_ , now, always Steve, the only name that fit whether Barnes was remembering him in a green dress uniform or a shirt with blood-stained cuffs hanging down to his knuckles or in soft pants and sleek blue restraints--after their last encounter. Steve was luring, not chasing. If he’d wanted to run Barnes to ground and take him in by force, he would have done it already. Steve had to know by now that the former Winter Soldier was haunting his Smithsonian exhibit. Barnes was hoping Steve wouldn’t act on that knowledge, would understand that Barnes had to do this on his own time. It was a novel experience, trusting someone to act with Barnes’ best interest in mind. It was even more novel for that trust to be well-placed.

Still, it wasn’t a surprise when a man joined him in the darkened video room thirty seconds into the clip of Captain America’s work in the European theater. Barnes didn't turn to look at him, but he watched the man’s approach in the reflection of the wall panel. He had plenty of time to get up and leave, if he’d wanted to avoid company. He stayed in his seat.

Tony Stark slid in next to him, close enough to touch, one arm settling casually across the back of the bench on his other side. "You've been coming here a lot.”

His Iron Man suit was nowhere to be seen, but Barnes noted automatically that his watch was heavier than an object its size should be. It likely concealed weaponry or defensive technology. Stark’s paranoia was a reassuring constant.

"Desensitization."

Stark's eyes narrowed. He wasn’t bothering to pretend to watch the video. Barnes kept his gaze forward, although he’d long had the video’s contents memorized. A few moments later, Stark shifted back, relaxing minutely. "Is it helping?"

"Yes." The video clip wound down to the end, then restarted, the title screen briefly washing the room in bright light. Barnes half-closed his eyes against the white glare. “I remember more.”

"Remembering hurts," Stark said, and it wasn’t a guess. Barnes’ behavior during their last meeting must have given him plenty of evidence to sift through after the fact. The whole time Barnes had been watching Steve, Stark had been watching him.

"Less now." The headaches weren't debilitating anymore, just straightforward pain instead of sick whirling disorientation. Barnes had recovered enough memories to scaffold around the remaining gaps. When a new memory arrived he was able to slot it into his personal timeline instead of losing it in a heap of disorganized impressions, snatches of sound and light with no context or coherency. Now he knew that lavender and detergent meant _Ma_ , cold muddy water and an oppressive, animal stink meant _trenches_ , blood in his mouth and reckless joy in his heart meant _fighting next to Steve_ , when they were seven or sixteen or twenty-five. Steve was the throughline, the thread Barnes could pull to weave together whole years of his unraveled past.

The film changed to black and white. Wartime footage, part of a whole series of recordings of Captain America’s unit, showed Steve talking to a young Agent Carter while his men leaned over a map. Barnes focused on Steve’s face, not the sergeant standing next to him. He’d learned not to push himself too fast.

Stark lasted seven seconds longer than Barnes had expected before speaking again. "Steve's waiting."

"I know."

“Okay,” Stark said abruptly, “here’s the thing. I get wanting to wait until you’re ready before coming in, but what are your _goals_ , what are your _metrics_ , and are you actually capable of reaching a state where you’re ‘ready’ or are you waiting until the guy who fell off a train in 1945 shows back up again? Because that guy’s long gone.”

“I _know_ ,” Barnes said. “Jesus, you think I don’t know that?”

“Ah,” Stark said. “You think _Steve_ doesn’t know that.”

Barnes didn’t swallow or blink or frown. It was reflexive by now not to react when something hurt.

“Well, okay, I see your point,” Stark said, and Barnes felt a sour twist in his belly, wondering what Stark had seen that made him so quick to agree. “But, uh, here’s the thing. Hydra kept pretty good records. Hidden records, sure, buried in sub-directories and ciphered to hell and back records, but that’s not so much a problem for me, more like a red flag to a bull, so they quickly became _un_ -hidden records, and there were, wow, really a lot of them. It’s not often you get a secretive evil organization that dedicated to strict document retention.”

Barnes did close his eyes then, the smiling faces of Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes on the projected screen suddenly too much to take. “You showed them to him.”

“Well, he read them. I wouldn’t say I _showed_ them to him so much as declined to get in his way when JARVIS announced the decryption program was done running, which I maintain was the smart choice. So. If you’re worried he doesn’t know what happened, or what you did, then let me assure you, that ship has decidedly sailed.”

“I think I killed your parents,” Barnes said.

“Wow,” Stark drawled. “I already knew that, but if I hadn’t, thanks for breaking it to me so gently, old sport.”

Barnes opened his eyes and looked at him sideways. Stark’s face was carefully nonchalant, but the foot on Barnes’ opposite side was suddenly pressing hard into the seat in front of them. “You seem pretty calm about it.”

“When I found out, I was considerably less calm. Property damage levels of not calm.” There was a weird twist to Stark’s mouth, something that looked almost like shame, easy for Barnes to recognize but difficult to understand, given the circumstances.

“You want me to apologize?”

“Would it mean anything, when you’re not even sure you did it?” The video switched to a digital recreation of the Valkyrie’s descent into the water. Stark turned entirely away from the screen to face Barnes instead, his focus blunt and unwavering. “Are their murders yours to apologize for? Who’s responsible for a death, the bullet or the gun or the soldier who fired it or the man who gave the soldier the order or the politicians who authorized the war or the man who built an empire on manufacturing the bullets? Those files I mentioned? I read those, too. I know exactly how Hydra kept their pet supersoldier in line. What do _you_ , specifically, the version of you who’s sitting next to me right now, have to apologize for?”

He was looking at Barnes with an intensity he hadn’t shown since they were about to walk into a room where Steve was waiting on his knees. This question wasn’t just a formality; the answer mattered.

Barnes thought about it. The video started again, the photos taken before Project Insight crisp and stark in black and white, all five feet of Steve Rogers standing rigidly upright and staring defiantly into the camera.

“I’m sorry that it happened,” Barnes said finally. “And I’m sorry for being a dick about how I told you.”

“There, see? Much better.” Stark’s leg started jiggling up and down, an obvious release of the tension he hadn’t let himself show otherwise. “Apology accepted, and we didn’t even punch each other. My therapist will be so proud.”

“How long have you known?”

“Five months.”

Since well before their last meeting, then. Stark had known what Barnes had done and he’d led him to Steve anyway. He’d let Barnes get close to Steve, let him hold Steve’s throat in the palm of his hand, and not said a word. Barnes didn’t know how to process that kind of trust from someone like Stark, someone who wasn't weighed down by loyalty to a ghost. “Steve know you’re here?”

Stark held a hand up and moved it like a seesaw. “More or less. He knows you’ve been here, but he didn’t think you’d appreciate it if he showed up. And he knows I have poor impulse control, so he wouldn’t be surprised that I came to visit, but he doesn’t know I’m here right this second, if that’s what you mean.”

So Steve wasn’t outside, if Stark could be believed. Oddly, Barnes did believe him. Stark hadn’t lied about anything the last time they’d met.

“How long is Steve gonna wait for me to come in?”

“C’mon, Barnes. You know the answer to that question.”

Barnes looked at his knees. He was never going to be ready to go home to Steve, and Steve was never going to be ready to give up on him. Unstoppable force, immovable object.

Might as well get the collision over with.

“You fly here?”

“Town car,” Stark said immediately, straightening up. His bouncing leg went still. “Heated seats, very roomy. I’ve got some snacks in there, full wet bar, the works.”

“Subtle, Stark.”

“I don’t care about subtle, I care about results.” Stark stood and brushed imaginary lint off his thighs. “You coming?”

Barnes swallowed hard, looking one last time at the video footage playing. Steve was laughing, eyes crinkled and full of easy affection as he looked at--as he looked at _Barnes_ , Barnes as he used to be and never would be again.

It didn’t matter. Steve knew what he was now and wanted him anyway, and Barnes couldn’t lie to himself well enough to pretend he didn’t want to be wherever Steve was. Stark was offering to take him home, and that was a miracle in and of itself. Bucky wasn’t going to spit in God’s eye by refusing the chance. “Okay. Let’s go.”

 

When the elevator slowed to a gentle stop at the penthouse level, Barnes almost, _almost_ went for the ceiling hatch. The desire not to make a complete spectacle of himself in front of Stark carried him through the moment of last-ditch panic, and then the doors were opening.

Steve was on the other side, standing completely still. He was staring directly at Barnes. Barnes couldn’t look at him. He couldn’t look away.

“You’re blocking the doors, Terminator. Shake a leg.” Stark shouldered Barnes to the side, casual about the contact in a way that had to be deliberate. “You too, hon.”

Steve ducked his head and stepped back, his eyes sweeping down from Barnes’ face to his shoes and back up. The elevator doors started to close again, and this time Barnes managed to stumble through them before they sealed up.

“You can talk,” Barnes said, belatedly realizing why Steve hadn’t said anything yet. “I’m--better now. About that.”

“I’m glad,” Steve said, and _oh_ , the recorded speeches at the Smithsonian hadn’t prepared him enough. It didn’t _hurt_ , but Steve’s voice still shuddered through him like it had weight, goosebumps rippling over his skin as it passed. “What do you need, Buck?”

The words themselves didn’t throw any echoes, but the question felt familiar anyway. Barnes wished he had an answer. He shook his head helplessly. Steve’s hands were at his sides, tightly gripping the fabric over his thighs.

“Here’s a radical idea,” Stark said, slinging an arm over Steve’s shoulders. A moment later, startlingly, his other hand came to rest on the middle of Barnes’ back. His hand was warm. The pressure was very light, like he was ready to drop his hand if Barnes pulled away, and Barnes held carefully still so he wouldn’t. “Why don’t you two hug it out for a minute and I’ll rustle up some food? I know you didn’t eat breakfast, don’t even try me,” he added, giving Steve a casual shake by the back of his neck. It was fascinating to see Steve’s cheeks turn pink in response.

“Food sounds good,” Steve said. “Thanks, Tony.”

“Just give me ten minutes.” Stark pressed a kiss to Steve’s cheek and withdrew further into the penthouse.

Barnes swallowed, his tongue thick in his mouth. Steve was still _looking_ at him. It was terrifying to be on the receiving end of so much naked hope, but it was also lifting him up, his heart rising into his throat. He was getting drunk off the warmth in Steve’s eyes, light headed and buzzing with it. “Stark cooks?”

Steve snorted, his uncanny focus cracking into something more human. “Not well. He’s probably calling an order in to the kitchen.”

“Well, you’ve sure fallen on your feet,” Barnes said, the drawling cadence of the words settling into place without his conscious thought. “Private chefs at your beck and call? Pretty ritzy, Stevie.”

Steve rocked forward on his feet, then settled back, visibly restraining himself. “Hey, you want breakfast or not, wise guy?”

Barnes reached out, feeling immensely daring, and set his right hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Rather have that hug Stark promised.”

Steve didn’t _quite_ move so fast Barnes couldn’t see him. It was enough warning for Barnes to keep his body relaxed, his muscles loose, as Steve stepped forward and enveloped him in a hug. The smell of him was disorientingly familiar, and for a strange lurching moment Barnes could almost hear the music and laughter of a dance hall around them, his mind overlaying phantom cigarette smoke onto the scent of Steve’s skin. Barnes closed his eyes and focused on the person instead of the place. No matter what shadows of memory his brain threw at him, he could never confuse Steve for anyone else.

“You staying?” Steve’s hands tightened, then loosened carefully, ready to let him go if they needed to. “Buck, are you staying?”

“Yeah, Steve.” Barnes pressed into his hold, letting his arms lock around Steve’s back as tight as they wanted. Steve wasn’t going to push him away. “I’m staying.”


End file.
